Stages of Grief
by sisirongana
Summary: Because falling in love can feel a little bit like dying. And for Isabela, it's been one long, slow death.  FHawke/Isabela.


_Note: Nothing to say, really, just that I hope you like it, and kindly read and review. I'm really interested in hearing feedback on this one. Bonus points if you get the Aladdin and Galaxy Quest references. :)_

_Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the plot. Somewhat deviates a little from what happens in-game (romance plot-wise), but nothing that will send you reeling. Unbetaed._

* * *

><p><strong>Denial<strong>

Hawke is like a magnet, and Isabela finds herself equally attracted and repelled. This, she reasons, is why she feels the urge to blurt what she says next.

"This is just sex," Isabela reminds Adrian Hawke like the other woman doesn't have her head buried between her legs, like she isn't this close to passing out from the sheer pleasure of it all.

Adrian pauses, lifts her head just a little bit so that delectable mouth is just an inch away from where Isabela wants it to be again. A dark eyebrow rises in mild surprise. "You're reminded of that _now_?" she rasps, her hot breath making Isabela's eyes flutter. "Guess I'm not doing this properly," Hawke says darkly, moving to pull away before a tanned hand reaches out, grasps her by the back of her head and grips at black hair.

"Don't you dare," Isabela gasps out. "I just…"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, Isabela," Hawke mutters, "But you're talking way too much."

Isabela is as indignant as she can be, considering the circumstances. Her? Talk too much? Who does Hawke think she is? Merrill?

But then Hawke employs the use of those long, strong fingers Isabela's thought so much about, and as colors explode behind Isabela's tightly shut eyes, all she can hear is the rush of blood through her ears and the vague sounds of her own screams of pleasure. Despite the incoherent thoughts of _ohMakeryesyesyes_ that cloud her mind, somehow, in the fuzzy recesses of her pleasure-addled brain, Isabela thinks that maybe, just this once, Hawke is right.

.

.

.

"That was…" The chuckle emanates from deep within her throat. "Well." The inability to talk ironically speaks volumes.

Hawke smirks, watching Isabela from the bed as the other woman dresses herself with slightly trembling fingers. "You could've done this whole speechless thing before, you know," Adrian says cheekily.

"Oh, stop," Isabela chides, returning Hawke's warm smile. There must be something about the dim lighting in Hawke's room, the flickering of the candles or something, that causes a strange glint in Hawke's eyes and gives Isabela pause. "I wouldn't mind doing it again, but…"

Hawke shifts in her bed, the sheets rustling. "But what?"

"Just remember what I said before," Isabela says, her tone hinting that she expects nothing else. "This is just sex."

"How could I forget, what with that rude interruption and all," Adrian retorts, her voice dry.

"Hawke," Isabela huffs, "I just don't want to…give you the wrong impression, that's all."

"Right."

Isabela sighs, and rubs at her temple with some force. "It's not you, it's me," she says earnestly, until she realizes what she's said and winces.

Hawke snorts, but it's more bitter than mirthful. "I'm pretty sure you can't break up with me when you won't even consider being in a relationship."

She leans against the bedpost, her impatience giving her the jitters. "Love just isn't for me. It's…it's better this way." Isabela says, voice firm although her insides feel strange and shaky under the weight of Hawke's scrutinizing gaze. Maybe it's the strikingly pale shade of those gray eyes, or their unwavering, intense stare, but something about them _always _makes Isabela's chest feel inexplicably light and heavy at the same time, like she wants to shove Hawke away and pull her just a little bit closer.

Now is no different, especially when Hawke _finally _just says something, shattering the silence with the softly spoken words. "'It's better this way,'" she repeats, almost to herself. She looks up, eyes as piercing as Isabela's blades. "Who are you trying to convince, Isabela? You or me?"

"I…" Isabela grimaces, hating how bewilderingly inarticulate she becomes when she's around Hawke. "I should go," she says and lets herself out without another word.

Hawke doesn't protest, and Isabela doesn't expect her to.

* * *

><p><strong>Anger<strong>

Isabela is pretty sure she hates Adrian Hawke sometimes.

The woman is insufferable with her unending acts of kindness ("Oh, of _course_ I'll find your puppy, little girl"), her affinity for altruism ("Here, take these gold sovereigns, you need them more than I do"), her ability to _always do the right bloody thing_ like it's the most enjoyable, most obvious decision in the world ("We can't do that, Isabela. It isn't very _nice_").

It follows that Adrian has a tendency to make everything she does seem unendingly effortless, and Isabela realizes more and more that as admirable as the trait is, she kind of really, really hates it, especially when Hawke applies it to her.

They don't sleep together for eight and a half days (not that Isabela counts or anything) after the first time, but throughout their travels Hawke seems utterly unaffected, like she didn't look like Isabela kicked her puppy in the face when she told her she was just interested in sex and sex only. But now she flirts with Merrill more often, smiling charmingly when she earns a little blush from the elf, and goes about her day as if she didn't make Isabela call out for the Maker at least six times that glorious night, like she couldn't give two lesser shits about their little tumble (not that Isabela does or whatever).

Worst of all, Isabela finds herself irritated about it all, and she doesn't even notice at first. Of course, Varric inevitably makes some horrid comment ("I'd never thought I'd say this, Rivaini, but you've been a little…off-kilter the past few days. Maybe you need to get laid…" He pauses, realizes who he's talking to, amends his words. "…Well, get laid _more_. I can't believe I'm saying this. Or that it's even possible, really.") and Isabela realizes she _has_ been snapping at people more often, getting into more duels at the tavern than usual. If _Adrian_ notices, she doesn't say anything, but she does suspiciously smirk a little when Aveline mentions how no, Isabela can't join them on their journey to the Wounded Coast because she's busy spending three delightful days in the brig for barfighting. (Prats, Isabela thinks, the both of them.)

When Isabela finally just snaps at Adrian one night at the Hawke estate, she just ends up getting gloriously and roughly fucked against the wall, and the bruises don't disappear for days (not that she's complaining, but couldn't Adrian have the decency to let her bitch before fucking her speechless?). Hawke just smirks at her afterwards and leaves her bedroom door open every night, knowing that Isabela will come for her in every sense of the word. Infuriatingly, Hawke never mentions their…arrangement again, and Isabela thinks snidely, flagon of whiskey in her hand, that that's fine, that's just what she wanted, and no, she's not bitter at all because isn't this just what she asked for? Isabela simply doesn't _do _bitter or clingy or feelings in general; no, all Isabela _does_, really, is other people, and that's…enough for her.

It's this sort of reasoning that makes her refrain from telling Hawke everything about the relic until it's just out of her grasp and about seven Qunari lie dead at her feet. She tells herself she doesn't tell Hawke the truth until just then because Hawke doesn't care, and she doesn't either, and none of it is a big deal. But then it all kind of goes to shit when Adrian's face falls, and her voice comes out in an accusatory whisper.

"You kept this from me?" she says, not really a question at all, and Isabela has to admit that all right, maybe Hawke did care a little because Maker, that _look on her face…_

"I…I didn't want to worry you," Isabela replies pathetically, and even she has to wince at how bad of a liar she's become. She blames Hawke for this too, because it suspiciously only happens around her. (Maybe she'll ask Merrill to check for blood magic, she thinks. It is the only logical explanation for the way Hawke makes her feel.)

"I'm sure," Hawke says, sounding anything but.

"Please, Hawke. Castillion will kill me if I don't get it back," Isabela pleads.

Adrian doesn't sigh, doesn't look like it's a tough decision to make at all, but she looks so unfailingly _disappointed_ that Isabela actually feels ashamed and this _certainly _is not something Isabela does, not at all. "We'll get the relic for you, if your life so depends on it."

"But what about the Qunari?" Merrill asks, the timid voice of reason.

Hawke doesn't break her gaze from Isabela's, her voice just as icy as her searching eyes. "I suppose _I'll_ have to deal with that later." Guilt-tripping. Of course. (Isabela thinks Hawke's been spending too much time around her mother.)

Isabela flinches just a little at the bitterness in the other woman's voice, then hates herself for it, hates Hawke for making her feel that way. She _told_ her, didn't she? This is what she warned against; she _told _Adrian not to trust her, not to develop feelings for her, because with things like love and affection came obligation and expectations and absolutely _none of those things_ fared well with Isabela, not one bloody bit.

This is what she repeats to herself as she scribbles out a note and runs off with the relic, all the while unable to get steely eyes, the words, '_Who are you trying to convince?' _out of her head. It is a question she still is unable to answer, or at least one she is afraid to.

She stands on the deck, watching Kirkwall fade from view in the ominous fog. It's all quite dramatic, really, and while Isabela's typically amused by theatrics, she's _really_ not when they're her own.

Now, Isabela is absolutely certain that she hates Adrian sometimes, but she realizes she might just hate herself a whole lot more.

* * *

><p><strong>Bargaining<strong>

In her mind's eye, she goes through the multitude of ways things could go now that she's left, but all of them end badly no matter what the path. Even if the Qunari decide not to go all growly and murderous and _principled_ (now here she really is just talking out of her ass, because she is pretty sure the Qunari have no other way of being), the worst thing is that Isabela will never be able to get Hawke's disappointed face out of her head. It's only after spending a few hours below deck, vacillating between glaring at the Tome of Koslun and scowling into the darkness that every single horrible emotion that she's feeling comes to a forefront.

Especially when a swarthy crewmember stomps down the stairs, crunching away at an apple. His eyes alight when he notices her in the darkness. "Well," he says easily, "It's a good thing we left when we did, innit?"

He pauses dramatically, waiting for Isabela to figure out that that's her cue. She sighs. "Why's that?" she asks flatly, disinterested in this poor excuse for a sailor's attempts at conversation.

"Just got word from passing ship, you know," he says, bits of apple flying from his mouth towards her. Isabela's hand unconsciously twitches for a dagger. "Somethin' crazy is happenin' there at Kirkwall. Said they saw the flames from miles away, like the city's burnin' up."

Isabela freezes, and any hot anger she felt boiling beneath the surface at Hawke, at herself, at this man and his fucking noisy apple simmers and solidifies into cold fear. "What?" she asks out loud, while on the inside, all she can hear is her own voice saying _no, Maker, no _and _damn it, Hawke_ (because of course she has something to do with it)_._

"Aye," the man slurps, wiping the back of his hand across his face and smacking his lips. "Must be all them horn-heads or something, finally losin' their cool." He chuckles at himself until Isabela lunges forward, grabs him by the lapels and shoves her face into his.

"The nearest port," she demands. "What is it?"

.

.

.

It's not the easiest thing she's ever done, physically: it seems to take forever to get to the nearest port, to find a ship that's actually heading back towards Kirkwall despite the turmoil, and to get herself back to the docks that have become far too familiar over the past years. But she fights like a darkspawn straight out of the Deep Roads, thoroughly trouncing everyone and everything in her path; Isabela doesn't believe in prayer, but there's something to be said about pervasive, repetitive thoughts (a mantra, really, nothing remotely like a prayer because she doesn't believe in that rubbish) – "Just let me get there in time" or, "If she dies, I'll kill her" or simply "Please" - because she sooner, rather than later, finds herself at the Keep.

Only when she hears Hawke's tired voice arguing with that insufferable Arishok does her battle lust curb, and that's possibly only because a maelstrom of fear (because really, what in the Void is she _thinking_), nervousness (because what will Hawke say, and why does Isabela care so damned much?), and relief (because she's only glad Hawke's not hurt so she can kick Adrian's ass herself, really) rages in her blood.

"And just _how_ would you see this conflict resolved without the Tome, Serah Hawke?" the Arishok rumbles, his growl echoing beyond the heavy doors.

All of Isabela's scrambling to get to this point has got her hesitating at the edge of this invisible cliff, this one last step she's willing to take. But Hawke's noticeable hesitation, her refusal to turn Isabela in, forces the pirate's hand, snaps everything into clarity. And just like that, Isabela just decides to take the leap, wearing her false bravado as damn well as she wears her corset.

"I believe_ I_ can answer that," she interrupts loftily, relic in hand and heart in her throat.

* * *

><p><strong>Depression<strong>

If anything, Isabela has to concede that the leap of faith wasn't that bad, because Isabela is no damned coward and the way Adrian looks at her with that soft smile and those gorgeous eyes makes it seem like it's almost worth it.

Almost. Because if Isabela will concede that making the leap wasn't bad, then it was definitely the landing itself that got her.

"What?" Isabela blinks. "I'm not going with you!" she says to the Arishok.

"No, she isn't," Hawke says, as if that's the end of that.

Of course, as per usual, it isn't.

"It is a matter of principle, Hawke. I _will_ return with the thief to Par Vollen," the Arishok says.

As exhausted as Adrian is, there is a telltale stiffening in her back and a spark flickering in her eyes. "I dislike repeating myself as much as you do," she growls. "Isabela will stay with m—" she frowns. She looks unsure, pausing at the sound that may or may not be Merrill giggling and Varric snorting, but Adrian definitely clears her throat, face a little red. "With _us."_

Those seemingly soulless black eyes search Hawke's for a moment, deliberating, and then the Arishok nods. "If you will not hand the thief over, then I challenge you, Hawke. A fight to the death for her."

Adrian's eyes gleam when she grins. "Fine with me," she says, already unsheathing her sword.

"No," Isabela protests vehemently. "If you're going to duel anyone, then duel me," she demands.

"You?" The Arishok says, looking at her like she's a pile of dung. "_You _are not basalit-an."

"Oh, sod it. You and your basa-whatsits." The Arishok predictably does nothing. Isabela whirls, pinning Hawke with incredulous, accusing eyes. "This is ridiculous," she hisses. "_Do something_."

Adrian shrugs in this infuriating, nonchalant manner. "I _am_ doing something," she says. "I'm fighting." She looks at her straight in the eyes. "For you."

"I…" Isabela stutters. "I'm not some prize to be won," she argues weakly, but Hawke's already turned away from her, has already readied her stance and faced the Arishok.

"I hope she's sure about this," Aveline mutters darkly, the coldness in her tone belying her worry. She glares at Isabela, accusing. "Some 'prize,'" she mumbles before the Arishok gives out a battle cry, and as he charges towards Hawke, all Isabela can do is watch.

.

.

.

It's a struggle getting away from all the nobles she's just saved, but if Adrian can manage to defeat the Arishok in single combat, then she can certainly manage to fight her way past an adoring crowd.

"You're still here," Adrian says by way of greeting when she finds Isabela glowering from a corner. "I'm glad."

"Are you?" Isabela says bitterly, taking in Adrian's bloodstained armor, the black eye, the split lip, the way Hawke seems paler than usual.

"Yes," Hawke says, taking one step forward and frowning when Isabela instinctively takes one step back. "I am."

"I hate that sometimes I really can't tell if you're lying," Isabela says. "And here I thought Varric was the token bullshitter."

"Well, I'm not. I'm glad you're here. Simple as that," Hawke replies. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes," Isabela spits. "Especially when it means both you and I risking everything just so you could end up looking like this," she hisses, gesturing towards Hawke's battered form. The terrifying moment where the Arishok had grabbed Hawke by the throat and dangled her in the air flashes through Isabela's mind, and she shakes her head, feeling ill. "I was halfway to Ostwick. I should've just kept going, I should've—"

Adrian steps forward, placing a warm hand on Isabela's shoulder that seems both a way to reassure Isabela and a way to steady her shaky balance. "What you _did_ do was the right thing, Isabela. I'm proud of you," she says softly, squeezing. "Besides," Hawke continues in an attempt at lightheartedness, "now that the nobles practically owe you their lives, you'll probably never have to pay for drinks again at the Hanged Man."

Hawke smiles, softly and carefully, and Isabela hates that it's because of Hawke's bloodied lip. The split lip shouldn't be there, just like how the understanding in Adrian's eyes, the cautious affection in the warrior's gesture shouldn't be there either. Isabela can handle being hurt, can handle her own broken bones and bloody gashes without a hitch, but she can't handle…well, whatever.

Isabela pushes past Hawke. "Don't you get it?" Isabela growls, swatting a rebellious wisp of hair out of her eyes in frustration, sweat prickling the back of her neck. "I didn't do it for them."

"…Isabela?" Adrian calls out, confused.

Ever since she met Hawke, she's had a thousand moments of weakness. Frowning and whirling around to face Adrian, Isabela concedes that one more can't make her feel worse than she already does. She wants to hiss in anger, but when she speaks, it doesn't sound angry at all; if anything, she just sounds exhausted.

"I did it for you, Hawke. It was always about you."

.

.

.

(The three years Isabela spends travelling aimlessly, drifting from port to port on random ships; the significant increase in her alcohol intake and growing urge to start fights with random sailors; the way she can't sleep at night sometimes because she can't stop thinking, or the way she can't seem to wake up sometimes because she doesn't want to stop dreaming; the way she cringes whenever she hears word of the Champion of Kirkwall and tries desperately to avoid the Free Marches whatsoever but is relatively unable to…

All of that? That's all about Hawke, too.)

* * *

><p><strong>Acceptance<strong>

She is unsurprised when it is Varric that spots her first because the first place she goes is the Hanged Man. It's like she almost wanted to be found. Maybe she does.

"Rivaini," he says fondly, although his tone is not as jovial as it usually is. There are a couple more crow's feet lining his eyes, two more hints of frown lines near his mouth, an extra smidgen of cautious worry in his voice, but it is still Varric, and when Isabela smiles, it's an honest one.

"Varric," she greets, sipping at her whiskey. "Fancy meeting you here."

He rolls his eyes, laughing. "Last place I'd be, of course." Isabela just snorts into her cup. "Been a long time," Varric says offhandedly, picking at lint on his jacket.

(Three years and a day, Isabela thinks to herself.) "Indeed," Isabela agrees, "it has."

There is a pregnant pause as Varric merely eyes her, waiting her out, and Isabela just watches her finger dance around the rim of her cup. But Varric's predictably impatient; he never really could stand silence, and so when he decides to break it, he makes sure it shatters, saying everything Isabela feared and hoped he would say with three simple words.

"She misses you."

Isabela signals for another drink.

"Hawke won't say as much, but I can tell. We all can. She's extra broody. She's this close to out-brooding Anders, really."

Despite the hitch in her breath, Isabela's voice is firm. "Varric, I know how you like to tell outlandish stories, but this is really too—"

He shrugs. "Just saying, Rivaini. Don't pretend like you don't miss her too."

"I didn't say that." Isabela sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I…care about Hawke, you know that."

Varric chuckles, and the sound is so achingly familiar that Isabela is compelled to toss back the rest of her drink to burn away the nostalgia that eats at her. He claps a warm hand on her shoulder.

"I know that, Rivaini. But does she?"

.

.

.

She doesn't intend for it to happen this way, but when it comes to Hawke, that's just the way it goes.

"Isabela!" Merrill squeals, launching herself at the pirate in the middle of the market. "You're back! Oh, it's been so long. You look lovely, is that a new blouse? I love the stitching on it, it looks just like – oh, I'm rambling too much, aren't I? I'm just so excited, I missed you so much and-"

Isabela returns the hug with just as much force but far less…perkiness, and speaks just so she can stop Merrill's flow of verbal diarrhea. "I've missed you too, kitten," she smiles.

Adrian appears out of nowhere, gaudy staff in hand. She is too busy examining it to notice Isabela's presence. "How about this one, Merrill? The skull on top of it is rather foreboding, but I think the color matches your shirt…"

"Hawke, look who's here," Merrill blurts happily, tugging Isabela over.

Adrian finally looks up, curious, until her eyes fall on Isabela's form. "Oh," she says dumbly, then clears her throat and attempts a smile that makes Isabela's chest hurt. "Look who's here indeed." Her tone is not vicious but it's not happy either. Isabela doesn't know what would be more frightening.

"Hello, Adrian," she waggles her fingers in greeting. "And I'd say it matches her eyes more, don't you think?" Isabela says glibly, gesturing at the staff.

Hawke frowns. "What? Oh. I…yes. Sure." She turns towards Merrill. "Um…what do you think?"

Merrill waves her off, chiding her as she would a big, dumb puppy and not the Champion of Kirkwall. "I told you I didn't need a new staff. You shouldn't waste all your money on me." She squeezes Isabela's hand, proud. "Besides, how can you worry about a little thing like that when Isabela's here? She's been gone so long, we haven't seen her in years. Last time we saw her it was—" Recognition strikes her like a lightning bolt. (That happened, once. She was learning a new spell and something backfired. Hawke wouldn't stop laughing for at least an hour.) "Oh," she blushes. "Well. That's awkward, isn't it? Yes. This is awkward. I should probably…I'll let you two…" Merrill winces. "I'll just…" she gestures wildly to somewhere else. "Be, um. Over there. Or anywhere really. Bye!"

At the sight of Merrill clumsily fleeing, Isabela is unable to hold back her laughter. "She's very cute when she's running away, all embarrassed like that."

Adrian's eyes are piercing. "I suppose I could say the same thing about you."

"You could, but you'd be wrong – I'm more sexy than cute, and – wait, what?"

Hawke's face is typically, frustratingly expressionless. "Nothing," she says blithely.

There is an incredibly awkward silence that lasts eons as Isabela rocks on her heels and Adrian worries the inside of her lip with her teeth.

"So…you thirsty?"

Isabela is surprised and wary that it's this easy, but she isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not too closely, at least. "Parched."

.

.

.

She _really_ doesn't intend for it to happen this way, but when it comes to Hawke, that's just the way it goes. Damn Hawke for her ability to keep Isabela on her toes.

Or on her back, apparently.

(Isabela hates this too, because she said she liked being on top, damn it, and somehow she never feels like she is with Hawke.)

Isabela moans at the feel of Adrian's teeth nipping at her neck, the bite instantly leaving a lovely bruise. Responding in kind, Isabela trails her fingernails up the skin of Hawke's back beneath her shirt, and she delights in the little groan Adrian fails to hide, the little goosebumps she leaves in her wake.

Adrian is half on top of her, one of her thighs pressing deliciously between Isabela's until the pirate grunts and twists her hips, trying to roll over on top of Adrian (Never give up, never surrender, that's what Isabela always says. Well, occasionally). Rough hands grip her wrists, pinning them to the bed. There is fire in those steely eyes, and Adrian looks both unforgiving and pleading at the same time. "No," she whispers firmly, leaning down to kiss Isabela in an incongruously gentle manner. "Not tonight." When she pulls away, she searches Isabela's darkened eyes for something; Isabela doesn't know what, but she just nods with a quirk of her lips that's half-smile, half-smirk, half-uncertain nervousness. (Isabela's never liked mathematics; she's a pirate, for Maker's sake, not a scholar.)

Adrian grins, and it's like the room is brighter although they've only one candle lit. It casts delicious shadows, ones that Isabela tries to watch as Adrian trails kisses all over her body, the heat of her mouth burning through her clothes, but Isabela can barely keep her eyes from fluttering shut.

Hawke pulls the breast dagger none too gently out of its hiding place and in one swift movement, cuts the ties to both Isabela's corset and her blouse with a grunt. The forceful, aggressive move is unbelievably attractive. Isabela nearly passes out.

"I…liked that corset…" she mumbles in a feeble attempt at protest, but Hawke is relentless, tearing open the rest of the blouse. "And that shirt…"

Adrian says nothing. Isabela finds her silence oddly and ridiculously attractive too, but she can't keep musing about it if Hawke is going to keep doing that thing with her tongue and mouth on her breast. Isabela moans, burying her hands in Hawke's hair and scraping at her scalp; the feel of Adrian alternating between sucking and licking and biting is so good Isabela almost wants to push Hawke away for fear of sensory overload.

(She doesn't, of course, because she's not a bloody idiot. Most of the time.)

Suddenly Adrian's mouth is on hers and she normally would lament the loss of that delicious tongue on her nipple, but the feel of it massaging her own tongue is even better. Hawke practically ravages her mouth, not giving her a kiss but taking it. Isabela tastes the faint tinge of ale, feels the bite of Adrian's nipping teeth. Hawke's mouth burns like fire.

"Well, you're going to like this even better," Adrian says, practically growling, and plunges three of those deliciously long fingers into Isabela, curling upwards and hitting the most perfect spot all in one moment.

Isabela shouts, a guttural cry that speaks of almost too much pleasure and just the right amount of pain.

Hawke's other arm is braced against the headboard so she can hold most of her weight, but with each thrust of her fingers she rolls her hips against them, pounding into her. Isabela's eyes roll back into her head with every thrust, and far too quickly, she feels the oncoming of release. _Yesyesyesyes oh fuck yes_ she thinks deliriously. Adrian chuckles as she sucks on Isabela's pulse point, and Isabela realizes she's laughing because she's not thinking those words, she's positively shouting them. She would be embarrassed if she weren't about to have one of the best orgasms ever (top five, to say the least, and _that_ is saying a lot).

One…two…three more thrusts and it's over; Isabela's eyes slam shut and she screams herself hoarse as colors and lights burn the inside of her eyelids. She's dying and exploding and flying and suffocating and being born all at the same time and it's too much. She turns her head to the side, presses her cheek to the pillow and pants as she hides the single tear that catches her off guard. (Allergies, she reasons fuzzily. Or blood magic that causes her face to leak water – she _really _needs Merrill to check if she's been cursed or something.)

Adrian collapses, half of her weight pressing down on Isabela, before slowly pulling her fingers out and burying her nose in Isabela's neck. She presses a kiss there, and eventually, both of their breathing slows and evens out. Deciding that if Hawke isn't going to say anything then she isn't either, Isabela restlessly falls asleep with Adrian's warmth by her side.

When she wakes up much later, the bed has long since gone cold.

.

.

.

Hawke has gone back to her typical ways of speaking about anything else but the fact that they slept together. Isabela wishes she would, not that she cares or anything, but it's irritating wondering if Hawke thinks it was a mistake or is angry at her or something. (Because if that's true then Adrian should have the decency to just say so. She should be open about her feelings and tell Isabela what she really thinks, how she really feels about all this because otherwise it's just annoying and rude, and – oh. Isabela flushes and stops thinking, because it isn't hypocritical if you never finish the thought.) "What'd you say, Varric?" She mumbles, distracting herself.

"I said, just like old times, huh?" He asks brightly, Sundermount in the distance. The assassin they seek should be hiding out there somewhere.

Isabela stares at Adrian's back as she leads them further out of Kirkwall, simultaneously confused and hyperaware of something niggling the back of her brain.

"Yes," she drags the word out. "Just like old times."

.

.

.

It turns out the assassin is Zevran.

Hawke finds him, as expected, and everything else that happens is relatively predictable too.

He flirts with Adrian, he flirts with Isabela. He flirts with everything, is the point, and it's because he's just…_Zevran,_ and Isabela doesn't get why Hawke just doesn't get that.

They kill a bunch of people. (Typical.) He says his goodbyes, leering at both Hawke and Isabela (also typical), and then Isabela feels affronted that he doesn't even try to bed her. (_Not _typical, that last bit.)

"What about sex?" She whines, blatantly ignoring the way Hawke's hand clenches more tightly on the hilt of her sword.

Zevran bursts out laughing. "Haven't changed, I see. Well…" he mulls it over. "There is a pretty secluded cave over there."

"Seriously?" Varric asks.

"But I thought…weren't you…and…?" Merrill flounders for words, eyes darting in confusion between Adrian and Isabela.

Hawke says nothing, just smiles a tight little smile and shrugs so slightly, so weakly, she looks as though she's got a deformed shoulder.

Something about that stings. (Not the mutant shoulder part, but Hawke's casual dismissal.) Fine. Isabela is just fine with this.

She overhears Hawke's growly tone of voice while she walks off with Zevran. "Isabela … is free to do whatever… or _whomever_ she wants, Merrill."

"I'll meet you guys back at the tavern later," Isabela calls out, ignoring the jibe.

"You do that," Adrian says without looking back.

.

.

.

(This is the part it gets weird and everything isn't as predictable as it was before, because as soon as they reach the cave, flirting and reminiscing, Isabela suddenly feels ill and for once doesn't feel like having sex. It must be the apocalypse, or she must have contracted the taint somehow, or _why has she still refrained from asking Merrill about blood magic?_…or…or…- _"Who are you trying to convince, Isabela? You or me?" - _and….oh, fuck.

"So. The Champion, yes?" Zevran asks, grin devious. (Bloody mind-reader, Isabela thinks). "…You care for her?"

Isabela remains silent, so Zevran takes that as his cue. "How about we just go to that Hung Man place and have a nice glass of Antivan wine?" he offers.

Isabela laughs, grateful and relieved (not that she'd ever admit that, of course), and says, "I know you know it's the _Hanged _Man, you tart. Make it whiskey and you have a deal."

"Sounds like a plan." He gestures towards the cave entrance, the epitome of a gentleman. "Ladies first."

"You are too kind. Let's…not mention any of this again, shall we?"

"Of course not. I shall never mention how the great Isabela couldn't…shall we say, 'get it up'?"

"…Does the word 'castrate' mean anything to you?"

"Only that I think it would be best for me to stop talking and…revel in your beauty in silence."

"You do that.")

.

.

.

He finds her looking surly in a darkened corner of the tavern.

"How is it that great, beautiful warriors such as the Warden or yourself have such an ability to scowl so magnificently?"

"…You're _so_ Antivan," Hawke mutters into her mug. "And I don't know. Must be our yearly scowling conferences that are doing the trick."

"A sense of humor as well! What a catch," Zevran grins. "A wonder that no one's snapped you up just yet."

Adrian merely grunts.

Zevran purses his lips. "Or…" he drawls, "maybe it's not such a wonder. Your conversational skills leave something to be desired."

An icy glare flashes his way. "Maybe. But my skills with this giant sword don't."

"Now that, I believe." Getting no response, Zevran plows onward. "If you are wondering where she is—"

"I'm not."

"—she said she wanted to drop by Merrill's and grab her before coming over here."

"Okay."

He watches her while she ignores his gaze, tips her mug back further until she drains it. "Nothing happened," he says simply. At that, Hawke snorts. "I have no reason to lie."

"Perhaps."

"I know your type, Champion," he says, thinking fondly of the blonde Warden, a woman who is just as strong-willed as Hawke. "Stubborn. You never give up." He pauses, feigning deep thought. "I wonder what makes Isabela your one exception to that."

She stands up abruptly, shaking the table. "I didn't hand you over to that Antivan asshole for a reason. Don't make me regret it," Hawke says, then storms towards the exit.

Isabela and Merrill are there, just about to enter when the Champion brushes past them, muttering to herself and slamming the door.

Isabela casts Zevran a suspicious look; he shrugs far too innocently.

"…Did I…Did I miss something?" Merrill asks. "Oh, I did, didn't I…?"

.

.

.

Bodahn looks uncomfortable. "Messere said she didn't want any visitors just now."

"Well, we can't always get what we want, now can we?" Isabela chirps, breezing past him and heading towards the study. "If you could tell her I'm waiting here...?" He nods and leaves her, heading somewhat hesitantly up the stairs.

She has no qualms about looking at the items on Adrian's desk; it is nothing she hasn't done before. She leans against its edge, flipping past tons of invitations for the Champion and letters from Bethany until she ends up at the bottom of the pile. There is a collection of frayed little papers hidden from view; Isabela has to shuffle more papers around to get to them, to read them properly. When she does, she suddenly feels a little breathless.

The script is all in Isabela's messy handwriting, as it should be – they are all the little notes she's ever left Hawke on her desk:

_You need more food in your pantry, who do I have to sleep with to get fed around here? And don't you dare say Bodahn, you minx. Stop by later, won't you? I've been in need of your…company for the past few days. xoxo Isabela_

_I borrowed one of your blouses…something may or may not have ripped and it may or may not have been torn in a bar fight. Sorry! I'm sure I can think of some way to make it up to you… Xxx Isabela_

_Get well soon, the infirm are the only people I refuse to kiss or touch. Plus it's boring around here without you causing trouble and you're the only one that can get Anders to stop shoving his manifesto at me. Love, Isabela._

The sight of them makes something inside of Isabela twist and turn and finally, just melt. The fact that Adrian kept them, kept all of them…Isabela grips the edge of the desk just a little bit harder.

"What are you doing?" Adrian's voice cuts through the silence, startling Isabela.

"Uh…Snooping."

Before, Hawke would have laughed and kissed her, maybe shake her head fondly before doing so. Now, she only looks wary and tired and upset. "You shouldn't be," she says, back stiffening when she notices the papers in Isabela's hands.

"I seem to do lots of things I shouldn't, don't I?" Isabela mutters, unsure of if she's speaking to Adrian or herself. "Annoy Aveline 'til she arrests me. Drink until I wake up and can't find my pants. Eat and then go swimming, even if it hasn't been at least thirty minutes."

"Isabela…"

"Disappear for three years without so much as a goodbye." She pauses, feeling slightly sick with nerves. Words stick in her throat; her mouth is dry, and she thinks of Adrian and all the notes she kept from her and what that means, what that _says_. "Hawke…I…what I said before…about love. About us. I…maybe I…" Isabela stutters and embarrasses herself into silence.

(She understands her feelings for Hawke now, isn't as afraid to face them. But tendrils of self-doubt creep in, unfamiliar and disconcerting: what if she was reading too much into this? Hawke is somewhat of a sentimental fool, likes keeping things for the sake of memories. Maybe that's all this is. Adrian is the bloody Champion of Kirkwall and she's just…nothing. Nothing compared to what Hawke deserves, nothing compared to Merrill who is a much better choice because she's so sweet and goodhearted and just _adores_ Adrian, nothing compared to Adrian herself because she's just a pathetic, lying, cheating, slutty snake…)

They both awkwardly stand there kind of staring at each other until Hawke drops the guarded expression and straightens up, a fire in her eyes.

"Oh, Maker, this is all so fucking ridiculous," Adrian growls, running a hand through her hair and stepping forward until she can grasp Isabela's hands in hers. "Damn it all, and damn you, Isabela. I've loved you from the start and nothing you have said or will say to me can ever change that, you thick-headed dolt, so just fucking accept it so we can all move on and I can go crawl under a rock and die or something and you can run away like you always do."

"I'm _not _thick-headed, you—" Isabela stops and inadvertently does a great imitation of a fish out of water. "Oh." She says, eyes wide. Well then.

Adrian's cheeks are a charming shade of pink and she clears her throat a little awkwardly. "Er…Yeah," she mumbles.

"…You…you love me," Isabela repeats slowly, looking and feeling a bit daft.

Hawke rubs the back of her neck. "That was the gist of it, yes."

"The…permanent sort, I take it?"

"Probably at least until I die or something. Or if you die, I guess. I'm trying not to make this so macabre." Adrian frowns, her hands almost dropping from Isabela's. Isabela instead holds them more tightly, then gently places them around her waist. She tugs Hawke a little bit closer, wraps her arms around her neck. "Isabela," stutters Adrian, looking unsure and nothing like the assertive, unflappable Champion that everyone knows.

"Adrian."

"I can't do this again. The whole sleeping together and never staying 'til morning thing. Not when I…" she blushes, looks afraid to say the words again but does anyway. "Not when I love you and you don't love me."

"Who said I didn't?"

Hawke's eyes narrow. "You did. You never had to say the words explicitly..but you did. When you said you weren't capable of love, when it wasn't for you. When you told me it could be nothing more than sex. When you lied to me and left."

The guilt burns, but the ache in her chest that arises at the uncertainty and hurt in Adrian's voice is worse. "I suppose I deserve that," Isabela whispers. Adrian eyes her warily. "It isn't an excuse, but I was scared. I'm still scared. Terrified, actually. Just not as delusional," she says, smiling a bit nervously, but Adrian's face gives nothing away. "Listen, Hawke, I know what I said and did, and I know why I said and did those things. But things are different now. I promise."

"Are they?"

"They are," she confirms, believing her words entirely. "I…I'm falling for you. I _have_ fallen for you," she admits, eyes dropping to the floor under the weight of Adrian's inscrutable gaze, the heft of the unbearable silence.

"…Is it the kind where you've fallen and can't get back up? I hope so."

Isabela laughs, a warmth overcoming her nervous jitters and settling in her stomach. "You're an idiot. That was so bad it was actually physically painful."

"Oh, was it?" Hawke whispers, the frost in her eyes finally melting. Her hands slide around to Isabela's lower back, warm and gentle. "Can I kiss it all better?" Her lips hover so closely that they brush against Isabela's, tickling and enticing all at once.

"Maker help you if you don't, you tease. I'll—I'll-"

Adrian complies, kissing her soundly, and it is everything and anything Isabela could ever want. "You'll what?" she teases as she pulls away, smiling at Isabela's still-closed eyes.

Isabela finally opens her eyes, looking thoughtful for a moment. "I'll… lock you in a room with the Knight-Commander."

"Shit. You sure do know how to threaten a girl."

"I know how to do lots of things to a girl, and most of them aren't as foreboding," Isabela flirts. "Want to see?"

"Maybe," Hawke drawls. "I think our past experiences have given me some idea, but I'm more than willing to…re-examine."

"As you should be," Isabela breathes as Adrian's hands push lightly against her back, pressing their bodies impossibly closer. "I may or may not have picked up a few new tricks on my travels, especially around Antiva—"

Adrian rolls her eyes, asks, "Have I ever told you you talk way too much?" and then shuts her up with a kiss that feels like a fresh start.

Isabela feels lightheaded – giddy, almost, not like she'd ever admit it – and succumbs to the rush of emotion that washes over her, surrenders to the feel of Hawke's lips on hers. When Hawke tugs at her hand, they practically race to the bedroom.

Several, several hours later (she meant it when she told Sebastian it was "all night, every night" with Hawke) she listens in amusement to Hawke's soft snores and for once, makes no plans to leave before dawn. She makes no plans to leave at all.

(She does, however, plan to speak to Merrill. As it turns out, Isabela doesn't think this is the work of blood magic after all.)


End file.
